The Adventure of the Empty Tent
by Mourshkin
Summary: John's blogging again. Mycroft's in Tescos. A walking holiday in Scotland. Driving rain, mysterious men, isolated glens and almost certain danger. It nearly feels like old times again - only one there's person still missing...
1. An Unexpected Holiday

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

Hi everyone, sorry I haven't written for a while. To be honest, I'm not sure if anyone's even reading this anymore and I wouldn't blame you. I suppose I've just needed a break from all this. But maybe Ella's right, maybe it does help get stuff written down, get it out of my head. So I'm back!

Something pretty odd happened to me the other day. I bumped into Mycroft. In Tescos. He wouldn't have seemed more out of place on a bouncy castle. I honestly have no idea why he was there, part of me suspects that he'd gone there just to meet me. But then again, he hasn't tried to contact me, I haven't even seen him since... well, since then.

But all that's in the past, its been more than a year, come on John pull yourself together. I really do need to move on, get away from it all. It feels like every part of London, every street and cab just reminds me of him. Of Sherlock.

Well that's what I ended up telling Mycroft over Starbucks coffees (well I had a coffee, he just perched on his seat looking as if he didn't want to touch any of his surroundings.) I'm not even sure why he suggested getting coffee - it was all just plain strange.

Anyway, after I'd said all of that his manner seemed to change. If I didn't know better, I'd have said he was relieved. Well he seemed uncharacteristically keen on my idea to 'get away from it all'. He wouldn't drop the subject, kept asking if I knew someone I could go and stay with -

My sister? Well she only lives about half an hour away, on the outskirts of the city. So not much of a break. And it feels like she knows too much about what happened, like we'd just be avoiding the subject every time we talked.

Other family? No, not really.

Friends? I really tried to think, but no one came to mind. It was the same problem as with Harry, anyone who knows me, also knew Sherlock. I mean really, who could I ask? Stanford? He lives in London, as does Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson... And then I remembered. Ages ago, after that CIA bloke scared the hell out poor Mrs.H. She joked that she was glad her little brother didn't know what she got up to or he'd be so worried he rush down all the way from Scotland. Apparently, he's very protective. Up until then, I hadn't even thought about her having a family but seemingly he runs some sort of walker's inn up in the North.

When I mentioned that, Mycroft seemed about fit to leap out of his chair (he didn't, of course). However he was very effusive (well as close as he can get to it) about the idea - even insisted I call up Mrs.H there and then. And before I even knew what was going on, it had all been decided. So next friday I'm packing my old rucksack and setting off for a walking holiday in the mountains of Scotland. I'm not even sure if I want to go, but it almost feels as if I have no choice in the matter!

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**A/N: If any of you lovely, talented people fancy drawing me Mycroft on a bouncy castle, I would be enternally indebted to you ^^**


	2. Not a Good Start

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

God, where the begin? I feel like I've fallen into to some crazy dream. I suppose I can't say too much right now, might ruin the plan. Sorry for being so cryptic! I remember when I used to blog about cases, Sherlock would to get so frustrated when I didn't start at the begining so I suppose there's where I should start from now.

(Oh, I'm at the Inn by the way, surprisingly there is internet!)

So I got the train all the way up to this middle-of-nowhere station called Dalwhinnie (nothing to do with horses, apparently) without much happening, I slept most of the way actually. From there, I'd decided to follow an old drover's trail that led through the Cairngorn mountains to Mr. Ian Hudson's imaginatively named Walker's Inn.

When I got off the train, it was an absolutely beautiful morning (I'd come up by the sleeper). The sky was completely blue, there was only a soft breeze and the old path, when I reach it, was smooth and wide. It seemed the perfect day for a walk and I soon found that there were two other blokes off the same train as me who were planning the same walk. They were both a bit reserved, not unfriendly, just a bit unwilling to talk much. I'd hoped we could all walk together, but they both seemed in such a hurry that I didn't even get a chance to introduce myself before they'd set off at such a pace that they were soon out of sight on the winding track.

They were both far taller than me (although I admit that's not so unusual), both blonde and both dressed in very serious, proffessional hiking clothes. It was a bit strange, because despite their similarities, they didn't walk together or even seem to know each other - they were both in such a hurry, so intent on walking that they had no time for anything else.

One of them seemed kind of familiar to me. I had a vague feeling that maybe I'd seen or met him during my time in the army or something. I didn't say anything though, to be honest I thought they'd noticed my limp and hadn't wanted to get stuck walking with a slowcoach. Did I mention it was back? Not all of the time, but it has sort showed up a few times again over the past year. I know its in my head and I'm not sure what triggers it, its just something I have to live with.

Anyway, thats how I started out on the path alone and, I soon realised, terribly underprepared! I had no map, no compass and was just wearing jeans, a shirt, my old army boot and a thin jacket. A word to the wise, when walking in Scotland - bring waterproofs! Even if its the most beautiful summer's day imaginable, even if there's not a cloud in the sky when you set off! I was about what I guessed was half way through the walk, when the sky started to darken. Dense, evil-looking clouds rolled towards me, hiding the tops of the surrounding mountain and blocking out the sun. It couldn't have been much after 4 in the afternoon but it was more like late evening - there was so little light. Everything went downhill from there; the wind picked up and up and up and the threat of rain seemed more and more real.

To make matters worse, the once clear track had dwindled to tiny footpath that, in the gloom, was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding moor. I think it must've been about the time when it started raining that I wandered off the path. And this wasn't just rain, it was unlike anything I've every experienced. I was walking directly into a wind so strong it seemed knock the breath out of me, I had to lean forwards to stop myself from being blown over. To accompany the wind, the rain got heavier by the minute until I felt as if somebody were lobbing freezing bucket-loads of water at me.

Needless to say, I was soaked through, freezing and completely disheartened. I was lost. It was almost pitchdark by this point and I had no tent nor any means of finding sheltler. I couldn't help but imagine some poor hiker coming across my frozen body the next day - it really did seem hopeless. And I had almost given up.

That was when I saw the light. Tiny and warm, flickering in the distance.


	3. The Shock of My Life

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

Hello again! I'm afraid I couldn't finish writing up everything that happened last night, I was completely wrecked that I just couldn't type another word. I'm in a bit of a hurry this morning because we've got to set off soon on our...mission. So I'll try to bring you as up to speed as I can now -

When I saw the light winking away in the distance I felt a new surge of hope. All my energy seemed to return as I struggled across the uneven ground. It was late at night by this point, so I had no idea where I was putting my feet but by some miracle I made it all the way without falling.

As I neared the lightsource, it resolved itself into the second most welcome sight I've seen in my whole life... the Walker's Inn. (My first most welcome sight? Well, I'll tell you about that later!) The Inn is a long, low stone building that looks like it popped straight out of the 19th century - heavy wooden doors, slate roof and tiny windows that were rattling in the howling gale. I was so relieved I basically broke in to a run as I neared the door, but I was so overcome with tiredness when I eventually reached it that I only just had enough energy to bang on the door and hope someone would hear me above the screaming winds.

For a heart-stopping second I thought that no one had. Then the door swung sharply inward, pushed by the wind, and there stood a small man in about three fleeces with the biggest grin on his face I've ever seen.

"Ah-ah! You must be John Watson!" He said, bundling me through the door and into cosy room with a bar and a jumble of mis-matched furniture and not a single other person in it.

"We were beginning to worry, thought you'd got yourself lost! Oh I'm Ian by the way, come in, come in and Hamish will get you a drink...HAMISH, WE'VE GOT A LATE ARRIVAL!" This last part he shouted over his shoulder into the adjoining room. For such a short man (shorter than me!) there seemed to be an awful lot of words coming out of his mouth and an unlikely volume and speed.

Despite the noise he was making, there was something friendly and comforting about his manner that immediately identified him as Mrs.H's brother. I was so drained from my final effort I could only stammer a thank-you as he steered me over to the bar and helped me onto a stool.

"Here son, let me take your bag and jacket and we'll get them dried off. No, no you just sit tight there, Hamish'll be through in a sec to get you a dram of something warming. HAMISH! HURRY IT UP!" And with that he bustled out of the room, leaving me in a daze.

A moment later, a tall bloke with a beard and a messy head of ginger hair came in, stooping just a little to clear the low doorframe. He was wearing heavy boots and cordoroys and a bulky knitted jumper that seemed oddly familiar to me. The overall impression was of a wild, outdoors-y Scotsman. He smiled slightly and nodded at me as he walked behind the bar and stood opposite where I sat.

"I'm guessing you're Hamish?" I said trying to break the ice.

"Aye, that'll be me. Now, what can I be getting ye? A dram? Or would ye prefer a wee cup o' tea?" His accent was so thick, I sat mutely for a second trying to understand what he'd just said.

"Um yes, a cup of tea would be perfect actually." I said finally with relief.

Another small smile flickered over the man's face as he said, "Aye, I thought you might like that."

He turned his back, switching on the kettle and reaching down for a cup. I realised that I hadn't told him how I liked my tea so I began,

"If its no bother, I usually have.."

"One milk, no sugar." He cut in so abruptly that I was lost for words. It all seemed very strange, how did he know that? Maybe it had been a lucky guess.

There was another rather awkward pause, he kept his back to me as the sound of the boiling kettle filled the room. Tired as I was, I searched my mind for something else to say; the silence was begining to make me uncomfortable. Then I let out a small chuckle.

"Here's a coincidence, Hamish is actually my middle name!" I smiled, but his lack of reaction quickly wiped it off my face. His back remained turned and he stood upright, rigid - almost as if he was scared.

Then he took a small wavering breath. And in a voice that was not his own, in a low voice that is so familiar and dear to me he said...

"I know."

I'm rather embarrased to say that at that point I fainted.


	4. His Return

**A/N: For anyone who's unsure, a 'ghillie' is basically a Scottish name for a gamekeeper or guide ^^**

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The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

When I came round, I found myself slumped in a cracked leather armchair where the man-who-was-not-Hamish, I realised, must have bodily dragged me. Eventually I roused myself sufficiently to look around me. I was in same the room as I had fainted in; there was the bar, the rattling little windows and there, standing silhouetted in the doorway was a man I had known to be dead.

Although it was very dark by this time, I could tell he was looking at me and though a shadow fell across his face, I could still read the tense emotion in him. Honestly, I hadn't a clue what to say, what to do - I mean its not really an everyday occurrence; your best friend coming back from the dead. I shifted awkwardly in my chair, gripping it's arms to stop my hands from shaking. I tried to talk but only a sort of strangled sound came out. At this noise, the figure in the doorway stood up to his full height and walked towards me with faltering steps.

It was him. It really was - under the ginger beard and coarse clothing Sherlock Holmes stood before me. I felt like punching him. I felt like screaming in his face. I felt like leaping out my seat and hugging him and never letting go again. Any of those things would have done, any of them would have been a better response than -

"Is that my bloody jumper?"

The silence hung between us for just another instance. Then simultaneously our face crinkled into laughter. I wrapped my arms around myself, doubling over in my chair and heard Sherlock collapse into the seat opposite me. Just then it felt like no time had passed at all. It felt like we were back in our old flat and nothing had ever changed, except of course it had. Slowly our laughter subsided and the room was quiet again.

I looked up at my old friend, trying to order all the questions that were rushing through my mind. And just like always, it was like he'd read my thoughts - his mouth open and shut a couple of times and then -

"Yes, John, it is your jumper it has been part of my disguise for the last few months; Hamish the ghillie and deerstalker, rather fitting do you not agree? Yes, John, I am alive but no, this is not my real beard - I can remove it if it's distracting you, it must be because you can't seem to stop staring at it."

My eyes flew back up to meet his in my embarrassment, it is true I couldn't quite reconcile myself with the dramatic change to his face. Reading my thoughts, Sherlock smirked and said,

"I will happily removed as soon as you get rid of that ridiculous moustache which I am horrified to note is not false."

I quickly covered the offending facial hair...and that was when I got angry.

"How can you lecture me? You were gone, you were DEAD Sherlock! How bloody dare you. How could you let me think that? A WHOLE YEAR I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD, I WAS SO ALONE...I..I..I had nothing..." My voice trailed off and i realised I there were tears in my eyes. There were tears in his too as he said in a small voice -

"I had no choice. I didn't realise how much it would hurt you...I didn't realise how much it would hurt me."

Although his voice was shaking with emotion, I set my mouth in a grim line.

"Of course you had a choice, any time, just one text that's all it would have taken, just one text!"

"I'm not dead, let's have dinner?" Sherlock questioned with a raised eyebrow. He was trying to make me laugh, I realised with a shock. The great Sherlock Holmes was doing his clumsy best to cheer me up. The attempt softened my heart slightly.

"Please, Sherlock just tell me what happened?"


	5. The Gunman

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

Sherlock went on to explain a whole crazy scenario involving snipers, false secret codes and fake suicide. It was so extraordinary that I wouldn't have believed it from any other lips than his.

The reason that he had to pretend to be dead, it transpired, was that although Moriarty really was dead, there was still a whole network of criminals still operating under his orders. Orders to kill Sherlock and everyone he cared about. The fact the he had deceived me to protect me did make me a bit less mad at him, I have to admit.

It seems its been pretty difficult for him pretending to be dead all this time. You see, he's been chasing down the remnants of Moriarty's allies, trying to get them arrested and break the network. And here's the thing, he says he's almost done it.

For more than the year he's been trailing the globe, with basically no help in his task. (Well apart from bloody Mycroft who's known this whole time and not said a word to me!) I wish he'd let me help but Sherlock insists it was for my own protection. I was so tired and washed out by the time he got round to explaining all this at the Inn, that I didn't have the energy to argue. But there was one thing I needed clearing up...

"Hang on, what do you mean 'almost done it'?" That sounded intensely ominous to me. "Does that mean there are still people out there trying to kill us?"

"Not at all, John." Sherlock did his not-quite-a-smile and a let myself relax slightly, until he continued...

"There's only one left, and he's certainly not 'out there', he's right here."

"WHAT!?" If I'd had more energy, I'd have leapt from my seat. I stared around wildly, searching for this hidden killer. When I could see no one else, my eyes came back to rest confusedly on my friend. "Ok Sherlock, what the hell is going on? If that's a joke it's certainly not funny."

"Well, I must say your reaction was a tad amusing, but I promise you I'm not joking." He suddenly turned serious. "I've hunted down every minion of Moriarty, stopped every spy and sniper who tried to get at you. But for this whole year, there's been one person who's evaded me. He saw me fall from the roof. He is the only one left who knows I'm alive."

"What? Who is he? What do you mean 'he's right here'? Did he follow you?"

Sherlock sighed in what could have been exasperation, or perhaps just relief at finally having an audience for his story.

"He was the gunman who was supposed to kill you if I didn't jump that day. He was Moriarty's best and yes, he's been trailing me for quite some time. For him, this isn't just about carrying out orders, its personal to him. He blames me for Mortiarty's death, in his mind I've destroyed everything that was important to him. He is ruthless and he will not stop until I am dead."

Fear seemed to creep into me like frost, questions crowded inside my head. How had Sherlock evaded such a deadly assassin so far? Did he have a plan to stop him now? Was that the reason I was finally getting to see Sherlock again? But instead of asking any of those questions, I could only manage to stutter...

"Wh..Who is he?"

A grim look settled across Sherlock face as he said in a hoarse whisper...

"Sebastian Moran."


	6. Suspect Statement

**Aberdeen City Police Department**

**Suspect Statement of Sebastian J Moran**

Moran: Look, what do you want me to say?... You've obviously all decided I'm guilty already. You obviously don't care about my side of the story, so why are you even bothering?

_Suspect pauses and looks out of the window._

DI MacDonald: Of course we want to hear your side, that's why we're here, in this cell, with this tape recorder. So...any time you're ready...

_Suspect mutters under his breath in Irish Gaelic, what is said is indistinct._

Moran: I'd known him since we were young, y'know? I'd always known him...so, so when it happened I couldn't just sit there and do nothing. He is important to me... or he was.

DI MacDonald: Who was important to you?

_Suspect appears overcome with emotion._

Moran: Jim.

DI MacDonald: Jim?

Moran: Jim, James...James Moriarty.

DI MacDonald: So you believe he was a real person? Are you saying that James Moriarty was not simply the invention of Sherlock Holmes?

_Suspect stands up violently, knocking over his chair._

Moran: OF COURSE HE WAS FUCKING REAL! HOW DARE YOU SUGGEST OTHERWISE. I GREW UP WITH HIM, WE WERE BEST FRIENDS. HE WAS...he was...I...

DI MacDonald: If you want to continue this, Mr. Moran, I suggest that you sit down and try to keep a hold of your emotions.

_Suspect picks up the chair and sits but still appears agitated._

DI MacDonald: Thank you. Now you must understand, Mr. Moran, that there is no record of a James Moriarty. Every official source tells us that he was completely fictional.

Moran: Well, of course they do. That was all part of his plan. He was brilliant that way, I just can't stand that there's no one who recognises it. I can't stand that when he... when he died, he just dissapeared. I mean the headstone doesn't even have his name on it. Every time I went to visit the grave, all I saw was that bloody detective's name.

DI MacDonald: What detective?

_Suspect clenches his fists, apparently trying to master his emotions._

Moran: Holmes - it's his fault. That's all I could think, there by the grave. Without Sherlock Holmes I would still have him. If that fucking Holmes had died that day, I would never have lost my Jim.

_Suspect sighs and looks out of the window again._

Moran: So there, in the graveyard. That was when I decided what I had to do.

DI MacDonald: What did you have to do?

Moran: Finish what my Jim had started. Kill Sherlock Holmes.

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**A/N: Just thought I'd mix it up a bit here - what do you guys think? I'm actually tempted to write another story about Sebastian, should I? Thanks for reading!**


	7. A Close Shave

The Personal Blog of Dr. John. H. Watson

It was the moustache that saved my life. Although I did eventually shave it at Sherlock's request. He, of course, had recognised me but it seems that the day I walked off the train that the moustache had been enough to conceal my identity from not one but two people.

The disguise was a mixed blessing. Of the two tall, blonde men who left me behind in their hurry towards the Walker's Inn, one of them was the now infamous Sebastian Moran. I feel sure that if he had recognised me, I would not be here today. I probably would not have survived a minute. He is ruthless, as Sherlock and I discovered at our peril.

The other man, however, was Detective Inspector Alec MacDonald of Aberdeen City Police. If Alec had recognised me, he assured me later, we could have walked together and it would have saved me a soaking. It seems Sherlock had called in an old favour with him in order to arrest Moran. That had been his plan all along, it seems; to lure Moran to a place where Sherlock had the advantage and then trap him.

I'm sure you have all finally heard of the truth about Moriarty through media coverage of the Moran trial. It is a relief for me to have Sherlock back and recognised for his abilities. I'm sorry for the long silence, but apparently I can't write about the actual arrest until after the trial because it might interfere with the procedings.

I will however, publish my full account as soon as possible. Until then, I think I will just dwell on how my moustache saved from - ironically - a rather close shave!


	8. A Deadly Plot

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

So now finally I have the chance to tell you exactly what happened the night Sherlock and I caught the most dangerous man in Britain.

I'm sure you're all aware that Sebastian Moran was Moriarty's right-hand man; an ex-serviceman and probably the best shot in Europe. None of this made me feel particularly secure as Sherlock filled me in on the details of the plan. Especially as Moran was presumably somewhere in the vicinity, hiding in the surrounding hills.

I had quite an early start that morning. Kitted out with more suitable hiking gear, I set off with DI MacDonald (whom we had somehow managed to recruit as an ally) in the opposite direction to Sherlock.

He was still posing as Hamish the ghillie, acting as guide to a group young City-types with more money than sense who fancied a bit of deer shooting. MacDonald and I travelled light, although we were both armed. Sherlock carried a huge rucksack with camping equipment for his group.

MacDonald and I walked until the Inn was well out of sight and then began to loop round towards the remote Glen Dubh - the sight of the action. The whole time we were keeping a look out for the elusive Moran, but we caught not a glimpse.

I was starting to regret the circuitous route that Sherlock had insisted on 'for my own safety'. There wasn't a flat bit of ground to be found and the country was wild and pathless, but finally we reached the Glen. Rather than going into it, the inspector lead me up almost to the peak of hill that over shadowed it. On every other side, sheer, inaccessible cliffs. And there, down in the hollow of the glen where Sherlock and the group he was guiding. They were caught like rabbits in a trap, enclosed on all but one side - the only escape route I assumed was being blocked off by Moran. To me, it looked more like a good place for a massacre than a successful arrest.

I watched from high up on the hill as an ant-sized Sherlock set up his tent by the light of the setting sun a little way from the hunters. As night fell, one by one the lights went out in each tent until only Sherlock's was left, glowing green through the fabric. Apart from that distant green glow it was pitch dark and utterly silent. With a sinking feeling I realised Sherlock hadn't explain what was going to happen next.

Was he seriously just going to sit there in his tent and wait for Moran to sneak up on him? I'd heard this guy's reputation and I didn't think even Sherlock could over power him in a one on one fight. I grabbed MacDonald's binoculars and focussed on the tent, I gasped as I saw the silhouette of my friend. He was a sitting target. Literally. Watching a moment more, I saw him pick up a book and begin to read.

I was dumbfounded, the night a cold-blooded killer has selected for your assassination, isn't really the best night for a bit of light reading. What the hell was he playing at? I turned to the inspector who lay beside me in heather, scanning the dark hills. I was about to speak when he turned to me in the gloom, put his finger to his lips and pointed down at the hillside below us.

I squinted in the gloom. There was nothing there.

And then, a figure seemed to appear out of the dark. It moved silently not 20 feet below us. It looked down towards the green light of the tent and crouched, unshouldered it's bag and pulled out...a rifle.

Then I realised what was happening. Moran. He wasn't about to walk straight up to Sherlock, no, that would be unnecessary. All he needed to do was aim for the clear silhouette of my friend and pick him off with a single shot. Of all Sherlock's mad plots this had to be the worst; using himself as lived bait!

I was all ready to go storming down the slope after the gunman when MacDonald grabbed my arm and shook his head. Instead he drew his gun and I followed suit.

The next few seconds were heart-stopping. I watched, helpless as Moran lined up the shot. He took aim and...

BANG!

The sound of the shot ricocheted deafeningly on the cliffs. The tent collapsed, its single light snuffed out.

"SHERRRLOOOCK!"

In blackness I stumbled down the hill to where I guessed Moran was. Something had gone wrong with the plan. For the second time I had stood by and watched my friend die. Pulling out my gun, I began shooting randomly in the dark. I was going to keep shooting until I had no bullets left, until the bastard was dead. But something stopped me...

"No! John stop! argggh..." It was his voice, how was that possible? For a moment I thought I would faint again.

Instantly, MacDonald flicked on his torch behind me and a violent scene was illuminated. Sherlock, yes Sherlock, was locked in a struggle with Moran and the gunman clearly had the upper hand. I ran forward and launched myself at them, throwing the two tall men to the ground. Moran thrashed like a trapped animal and I almost let go but the inspector rushed up and between the three of us we managed to restrain him.

By this time light and shouts were coming from the campsite below, soon we were joined, not by a group of posh hunters but by an entire police unit who had evidently been in disguise the whole time.

"Sebastian Moran, I am placing you under arrest for the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes."


	9. The Explanation

"Well it was a projection, of course John."

The elated detective took a victory sip of boiling hot tea and tried not to wince when it burnt his mouth. John sat stunned for a moment, and then-

"Brilliant, utterly brilliant."

Sherlock allowed himself a fleeting but indulgent smile, it had been oh so long since he'd had John to listen to his plots, theories and tales.

"But how did you-"

"Shall I explain from the beginning? Although it really is rather simple, John, I'm not sure why you find it necessary."

The man sat opposite him, nodded curtly, obviously slightly irked by the detective's condescending manner but still eager to hear the story. Sherlock tried to affect a exasperated look to conceal his delight at getting to share the plan that he was so very proud of.

"You see, I knew that a spot as remote as this would appeal to Moran. I think he thought it a fitting end for me to die alone and anonymous. So I set myself up as a ghillie here and had Mycroft keep tabs on Moran - which is not easy feat, even for my brother."

Sherlock nodded politely at Ian Hudson as he brought through two bowls of steaming soup, placed then by his and John's armchairs, threw another log on the roaring fire and the quit the room. When they were alone again, he continued -

"When we realised that Moran was on his way, I ensured that you, MacDonald and him would get here on the same day. MacDonald had also arranged the extra precaution of an undercover police squad, incase things got ugly."

"Which they did."

"Well, that was rather the point John." Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. "You see, the police had absolutely nothing on Moran - Moriarty protected him well. So we had to trap him into actually attempting my murder before we could arrest him."

"I scoured the area and found that Glen Dubh was an excellent spot as it had only one place where Moran could possibly position himself to get a clear shot. All that remained then was to go out to the spot and fool him into shooting at an empty tent."

"And how exactly did that work?"

"Don't you see John, it's just like shadow puppets?"

"Huh?"

"I simply used a portable projector to beam an animated silhouette of myself on to the tent wall - really quite obvious when you think about it, but still it managed to full Moran."

Sherlock smirked, sure that John would be impressed.

"Yes, well I have to admit it was rather good, but..."

Sherlock's face fell.

"Next time you fake your own death, at least give me a bit of warning."

The two friend's eyes met and they smiled, finally feeling the full relief of having each other back.

"I promise, John."

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**A/N: That's all folks! I should probably have said this was inspired by the canon Adventure of the Empty House. I like to read the books and re-imagine them as if in the TV series, I'd reccomend it as a way to stave off Sherlock-withdrawal-sypmtoms! I had a great time writing this so, thankyou to all you lovely folks for reading!**


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